Cold Are The Crabs
Cold
are
the
crabs
that
crawl
on
yonder
hills,
Colder
the
cucumbers
that
grow
beneath,
And
colder
still
the
brazen
chops
that
wreathe
The
tedious
gloom
of
philosophic
pills!
For
when
the
tardy
film
of
nectar
fills
The
simple
bowls
of
demons
and
of
men,
There
lurks
the
feeble
mouse,
the
homely
hen,
And
there
the
porcupine
with
all
her
quills.
Yet
much
remains
-
to
weave
a
solemn
strain
That
lingering
sadly
-
slowly
dies
away,
Daily
departing
with
departing
day
A
pea-green
gamut
on
a
distant
plain
When
wily
walrusses
in
congresses
meet
-
Such
such
is
life
-
